


Let the More Loving One Be Me

by evie_ems



Series: We Must Love One Another Or Die [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Caretaker Bucky, Eventual Smut, Eventual relationship, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-18 06:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evie_ems/pseuds/evie_ems
Summary: Steve sits down for an interview with Smithsonian and things get a little too personal.Steve and Bucky become roommates. Bucky loves it but can't quite put his finger on why...And then war begins for our big dummies, at the exactly wrong moment for these two bumbling, secretly in love best friends.- There is some period-typical attitudes but I try not to let too much of it in so be warned but I tried to be very light with it.- This is my first fanfiction piece, and I don't have any betas, so any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!! More chapters will come, but I don't know exactly when.





	1. The Smithsonian Interviews Captain America

Steve shifted in his seat, flinching slightly at the interviewer’s question. He’d known it would be awkward when he’d agreed to sit down with the Smithsonian’s curators and provide some personal background information for their exhibition. But that was the price you paid, right? Maybe it’ll encourage some little kid, he thought. He’d devoured enough issues of _Adventure_ and _Western Story_ to know the power of a good hero tale on a skinny runt of a kid who had nothing else going for him. If it hadn’t been for those pulps, and his Ma’s stories about his dad during the War he probably wouldn’t have tried fighting back every single time he got kicked down.

 _“Dumbest thing she ever did,”_ he heard a raspy voice that he’d recognize anywhere echo in his head, and couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face. Then he shook the ghost loose and tried to focus on the question again. _No point in letting him slip under your skin anymore_ , he told himself.

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot what I was going to say,” he said, furrowing his brow helplessly.

The woman interviewing him smiled gently. “Of course, I understand. And please, if you’d rather not answer, we can move on. I just wondered if you wanted to address the questions some researchers had about your relationship with Sgt. Bucky Barnes.”

“Bucky was my best friend. All my life we were a matched set. Not even the Army could split us up,” he grinned, his big dopey Captain America grin, the one that flustered people and reminded them of warm apple pie. “That answer your question?”

“Well, yes, we were aware of all that, obviously. My question was really about the intimate nature of that relationship. Would you care to comment on it?”

Steve forced a laugh, tossing his head a bit for extra effect because the tape recorder was still on, and she still clutched her notepad, eager to write down every word he uttered for posterity.

“You’re telling me researchers at the Smithsonian wanna know how many girls I kissed? Well, not many, let me tell you. It’s kinda hard when you’re 5’5 in stockings and your best pal is 6 foot and the best dancer in Brooklyn.”

“No, that’s not— I mean, yes, we want to know everything we can for the archives, but, Captain, sir, you have the chance to really push against society’s assumptions, I mean, that is if…”

“Look, I don’t really see what all of this has to do with the war. I’m happy to answer your questions about what it was like to undergo scientific experimentation, get dropped into a war zone and fight Nazis and Hydra, but you gotta understand, my personal life is personal.”

“Of course, I understand. I just thought, perhaps…”

Steve worked his jaw. He knew what the woman thought.

\--

Later, back on the sidewalk, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and ducked his head. His long strides ate up the blocks now, and he never got tired, not from walking. Not even on these ridiculously big blocks in DC. So less efficient than the ones back home. As he walked, he thought.

It’s hard to know what you are when you don’t have words for it. Or, the only words you ever heard were spat out like something disgusting. It’s hard to know what you want or feel when you don’t even know how to talk about it, and the only times you get it you don’t even understand what you’ve got. It’s hard to know what love is when it only exists in secret.

They lived their lives in the cracks back then, slipping through the lines and the histories, never coming out and saying a thing so it couldn’t be held against you. Implying, sure, but claiming? Not on your life.

He’d known a few guys who didn’t try to hide it much when he was really young. And remembered seeing ladies who looked like men in their suits and slicked back hair. But a scrawny kid like him had a hard enough time of it in Brooklyn before “fairy” and “pansy” got thrown into the mix.

And he wasn’t about to start claiming things for Bucky. Hell, he had a hard enough time figuring out what the deal was with his own self. Bucky had had a girl on his arm every Saturday night, so who could have said for sure? Bucky was a master at slipping through the cracks.

 _“Who the fuck cares what they think?”_ said the voice in his head, busting into his thoughts yet again.

But Steve had cared. He’d been so goddamned relieved when he’d met Peggy. Finally, he’d thought, this is what men talk about when they watched a woman walking past. He got it. He watched her red lips and tight suit and could feel the lust rising through his veins. He got it even more when she talked to him like he had something to say, and looked at him like there was something to see.

 _I’m not a queer_ , he’d thought to himself when he realized what his reaction was. And he’d been grateful. And when she’d given a little pant and touched his chest after the procedure, he’d thought, _maybe_ , and a life unfurled before his eyes. Wife, kids, all of it. He could see it with Peggy.

So what did that make him, exactly? Well, a guy who had other things to worry about, for starters. Who cared what you did with your dangly bits when there were Nazis to punch?

And then there was the ice. And when he’d woken up and the world was shaped new, he’d had to piece it all back together again.

Movies, books, fashion, technology— all of it felt like a swamp he had to wade through carrying his whole pack, and he still didn’t know when it would be enough so that he’d feel like he belonged in this century. Not to mention the shifts in manners and social rules.

Growing up in Brooklyn he’d rubbed shoulders with all sorts of people, from all sorts of places, which made it easy now, it turned out, because Brooklyn remained a melting pot, as they’d called it in his day— diverse in today’s lingo. He didn’t have to get used to the fact that segregation was no longer enforced because in his part of the world it hadn’t been for as long as he’d known it. At least not officially.

But gay culture had still shocked him.

When had he noticed it first? The rainbow flags hadn’t meant anything to him for ages. No. It had been the make-up artist at an on-camera interview. That had been the first time he’d really picked up on it, like a prickle against his skin.

The man wore a fitted black sweater and black jeans, tighter than even Tony Stark, but it was the way he carried himself that Steve noticed. Just like the tough, take no shit fairies he’d seen back in the day. The ones who looked at street rats with a bored eye-roll when they hurled slurs. They were clearly queer and didn’t care who knew it. And back then he’d flushed, afraid to be seen watching the stylish men, afraid to even be on the same side of the street, but too ashamed of being a coward to allow himself to cross to the other side.

It was his easy, friendly flirtation that really made Steve sit up, though. He turned red, and could barely manage a chuckle, then the laugh came pouring out of him too hard and too loud.

“Captain America thinks I’m funny!” the man had said with a grin, bumping him with one hip as he reached for the powder brush. Steve hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off of him after that, and then he’d started noticing other men with similar mannerisms, and watching how they carried themselves through the world. They were brave and honest, and no one seemed to care that they liked other men. Or at least, most people didn’t. The people _he_ cared about.

He’d started Googling once it drilled itself through his thick skull, and reading up on the fight for gay rights. He knew the terms now. Knew the history. Was glad about it but still didn’t know what that made him. He’d only felt the hots for two people— Peggy Carter and Bucky Barnes. And neither of them were around anymore. So who cared what label he gave himself? And whose business was it? Certainly not the Smithsonian’s.


	2. Take Me Out to the Ballgame! (And I'll Definitely Get into a Fight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky go to a Brooklyn Dodgers' game and Steve can't help getting into a fight.
> 
> CW: quick mention of some assault.

_May 25, 1941_  
All of Brooklyn crowded through the Dodgers Stadium turnstiles. Bucky glanced over his shoulder to make sure Steve was following and Steve made a face at him.  
“I’m here. Keep walking? I’d like to get to our seats before the first inning is over.”  
“Yeah, yeah, like I could miss you kicking my heels.”  
“Then get a move on it. I wanna grab a hot dog too.”  
“Go. I’ll meet you there.” Bucky handed Steve his ticket for the seat.

Steve looked over it for the hundredth time since Bucky had brought them home, and squinted again like he didn’t trust they were real.  
“Bucky, these are really good seats. How’d you get them again?”  
“Seriously? I’ve only told you every other day.” He shrugged, “I bought ‘em off Tom. He was selling them cheap. Grab me a dog too, will you?”He pulled out change but Steve shook his head.   
“For seats like these I’ll buy you a hundred dogs. I'll even spring for mustard." Steve grinned and Bucky rolled his eyes. 

* * *

 As they streamed out of the stadium with the rest of the crowd Bucky and Steve buzzed with an electric high that could have powered five subway cars each.  
“I couldn’t believe it! They just…” Steve waved his hands in astounded silence.  
“I know! I watched it with my own eyes and I still don’t think I believe it!” Bucky threw his arm around Steve’s shoulders, shaking him because if he doesn’t release some of this excitement he’ll bust. The whole crowd is like that. They can’t believe the Dodgers broke their losing streak and what a way to do it! Everyone’s giddy with the delirious, clean victory of a good ballgame.

“And then when Reiser walked up, I just knew something good was going to happen. The way he’s been hitting lately, you just knew he’d do something big. But holy hell!”  
“Bases are loaded,” Bucky squawked like a radio announcer into a pretend microphone. “Pete Reiser is at bat.”

Steve lifted his arms, pretending to ready a bat on his shoulder.

“Ike Pearson shakes off the first call,” Bucky continued and Steve narrowed his eyes, staring down an imaginary pitcher.

Bucky windmills his arms, pretending to pitch as he also calls the game in his announcer's voice.

“Pearson serves one low and down the middle, and Reiser smacks it hard! It’s a liner to right but Rizzo can’t get to it. Three runs will score and Reiser heads to third. He’s being waved in, folks! It’s an in-the-park grand slam! An in-the-park grand slam to bring us to a 8-4 Dodgers lead!”

“I thought I was going to faint,” Steve says when he finishes thanking the crowd that is cheering him on, just like they had Reiser.  
“You thought you’d faint? I was screaming so hard I think I busted something. You know Ike Pearson beaned Reiser last month? I was so mad I coulda spit nails, but now… bet Reiser feels like a million now.”  
“Yeah,” Steve said, suddenly losing the train of their discussion.  
“Am I boring you?” Bucky asked.  
“No, sorry. Just that guy over there… I saw him at the game.”  
Bucky glanced over to see what was distracting Steve about the man.

Across the street, the man loomed over a black haired girl pressed up against a building in an alley. He had one hand in her hair and one hand on her waist. She tried to pull her hair away and winced in pain. The large man crowded closer, and Bucky saw her skirts being dragged up by the man’s other hand. She pushed at his arms but it didn’t do much.

Steve had already dodged between ball fans, rolling up his sleeves as he went. Bucky swore and chased after him. The crowd closed, and a large family of trailing kids held him up. He darted around them to catch up. By the time he arrived in the alley, Steve was scrambling up off the ground.

“Stay down, kid. This don’t concern you,” the man growled.  
“You’re in my town, so I say it does.” Steve lunged again and Bucky couldn’t get there fast enough. He heard the dull thwack of a fist against Steve’s temple. His stomach dropped as hard as Steve did.

“Hey, man, bad idea,” Bucky shouted as he took a swing, throwing his weight behind his shoulder and connecting hard with the man’s jaw. His head snapped back, and he lost his balance, falling into the brick wall.

The girl, pinned under him, let out a cry and pulled away, her arm free of the large man’s grip. Shoving her skirt into place she backed down the alley, out of the way.

“It’s okay, miss. We’ll take care of him for you,” Steve reassured her, climbing to his feet again and squaring his shoulders.  
“You little punks,” the man roared, lurching towards Bucky. Bucky dropped a shoulder and charged, taking him down to the ground. They rolled and somehow Bucky got an arm around him, dragging the man back up and leaving his face exposed.   
“Come on, Stevie, show him what we do to guys who mess with girls in Brooklyn,” Bucky shouted.

Steve stepped forward, chin thrust out, hand fisted the way Bucky had shown him when he was seven years old and drove it hard in the man’s nose. Blood splattered and the man squealed.  
“That’s it!” Bucky cheered. Then he released the man, shoving him hard so he stumbled.  
“Get the fuck outta here, and don’t let me see you coming back!” he called.

The man seemed as though he was going to turn and fight but a few other men stepped up from the small crowd that had gathered, and instead, he shoved through the people, swearing at them as he went.

Steve shook his hand, wincing. The crowd clapped and shouted.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulder and turning them towards the crowd. He grinned at them, gesturing to Steve.  
“Yeah, of course.” Steve gave him a look, then nodded an acknowledgment to the well-wishers.  
When they were back on the street Bucky let his arm drop and shoved his hands in his pocket.  
“That was a good right hook. You been practicing a lot?” he tried to make it sound casual, but what he really meant was, ‘how often are you fighting when I’m not around?’  
“Nah. Guys around here know it’s not worth it.”  
“‘Cause you can do this all day,” Bucky replied, gently teasing.  
“I might not be able to lick ‘em, but I sure can give them hell,” Steve declared. Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled fondly. It was one of the things he both loved and hated the most about Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The baseball game the boys go to is the one playing when Steve wakes up. It was a Brooklyn Dodgers-Philadelphia Phillies game played on May 25, 1941. The final score was 8-4. The Dodgers had just lost six straight games before this series, and Reiser had actually gotten beaned by the pitcher a month before, so it was a pretty sweet win. 
> 
> Thanks to this blog post for helping me out with some of the details! (https://tht.fangraphs.com/baseball-at-the-movies-captain-america-first-avenger/).


	3. Steveandbucky are Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky are roommates in a tiny, dingy apartment. Mostly fluff, because this is summer and fall of 1941, so we need to enjoy it while we've got it.
> 
> EDIT:  
> I added in a bit because I wondered where the famous "with you until the end of the line" quote might have originated from. So, I decided it came from riding the subway together as kids.

_June 1941_

Steve slowly turned around the small apartment’s parlor while Bucky leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, and watched.

The place wasn’t much, but it faced the river, which meant they got a decent breeze in the summer, and the fresh air would be good for Steve’s lungs.

“Comes with the furniture too,” he said, jerking his chin at a settee in the middle of the room.

“You sure we can afford all this, Bucky?”

“Hell yeah, I got it all figured out.” Bucky pushed off the door and comes over, tossing an arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders. “You keep working on your art, see? Soon enough you’ll get bumped up from lettering to do the actual ads and that’ll bring in at least two more bucks a week. Joe promised he can get me a job down at the Navy Yard. Said they can’t hire guys like me fast enough. I can still take my classes while I work. And this place is only fifteen a month.”

“Won’t your ma need that money?”

“She’ll be glad to get rid of me. What, with all the girls, I’m just an extra mouth and take up another bed. Plus, I can still give her some money. Dad’s got work coming in fine, anyhow.”

“It sure would be nice to quit boarding,” Steve worked his jaw, thinking it over. “But it’s only got one bedroom. Kinda a problem.”

“I’ll take the settee,” Bucky said.

“Oh, no, no you won’t. Not if you’re hauling cargo all day down at the dockyard and taking night classes.” Bucky had just registered for his final year of evening classes at Brooklyn College. 

He shrugged. “So, I’ll already be tired, and won’t care where I sleep.”

“We’ll take turns,” Steve decided. “One night here, one night in the bed. It’s only fair.”

Bucky groaned. He’d known this was coming but it still killed him anyway. Steve, with his constant colds all winter long was trying to weasel his way out of a warm bed in favor of lumpy cushions and a cold front room.

"Fine,” he relented, fully intending to conveniently fall asleep on the settee every night anyway.

They moved in.

Steve set up his easel and paints by one of the two windows, and Bucky handled the accounts at the grocery and butcher. Steve didn’t mind cooking, but he hated having to argue down the butcher’s prices. Bucky loved it.

“It’s ‘cause Mrs. Schmidt flirts with you,” Steve teased.

“Hey, if seeing my dumb mug makes a lady smile, who am I to stop her?” Bucky grinned and handed over the chopped liver. He hated the stuff, but it was cheap, and Steve needed more iron.

“That goes for Timmy O’Malley down at the grocery too?” Steve asked.

“Timmy doesn’t know when to quit the races,” Bucky replied. “And Joe has a cousin who works at the tracks. I know how to work an angle.” He shrugged.

Talking to people had always come easy to him. He could jaw for hours down at the barber shop while he was waiting on his shave and haircut. He knew it was a dumb thing to be proud of, but his mother had always said he had the Irish gift of gab, and sometimes that was useful when you had a friend like Steve Rogers who couldn’t help but get tangled up in other people’s business.

He’d been saving Steve’s neck since they first started school together, when Steve told one of their classmates to stop calling them Micks and the other kid decided he needed a lesson in school yard rules. Bucky had shoved the other kid hard in the dirt, then popped him in the nose when he’d been dumb enough to get up.

“I can take care of myself,” said the runty little version of Steve, his balled fists on his hips.

“Sure you can. But I’m here to help.”

Bucky had always been there to help. That’s what you do, his ma told him. It’d been _Steveandbucky_ since they were babies, sitting in Mrs. Rogers’ stroller together to make room for Becca, who was just a newborn. _Steveandbucky_ , whose mothers took walks together every afternoon, when the weather was good, and sat in each other’s tiny apartments when it wasn’t.

It had been the nuns who arranged it. Poor Mrs. Rogers who’s husband had died in the Great War while she was pregnant. And poor Mrs. Barnes, who had barely finished having her first baby before she was pregnant with the second. The nuns had given Mrs. Barnes the address for a nice lady who needed some cheering up, and that was that. If anyone could cheer you up it was Winifred Barnes. Or at least, she’d talk at you so much you forget you were sad.

From then on, the Barnes family took in the two-person Rogers family for holidays and Sunday dinners. And when Steve was sick Bucky was the one who brought him his homework and made sure he knew how to do it. Bucky had always been taking care of Steve.

 

_September 1941_

For the first time he could ever remember Bucky was tagging after Steve to a party instead of the other way around.

Steve had met some English poet at a political meeting in Brooklyn Heights the week before when Bucky had been on a date with Dottie seeing a movie about a green valley and a family of Welsh coal miners. He’d promised to come visit the poet’s house since they were only a few blocks away. Bucky, curious and half-jealous of the man already, had promised to come too.

“Just to shut you up about it, geez,” he’d said when Steve had talked about the poet, Wystan, for two days straight.

They called the townhouse where Wystan lived with his roommates “February House,” a fancy sounding name for a rundown mess of a place, in Bucky’s mind.

Everyone was drunk, and practically falling over, either constantly hugging and kissing or getting into arguments that made no sense to anyone but the combatants. Wystan kept trying to calm the arguments, ash from his cigarettes crumbling down the front of his sweater when he gesticulated.

Steve didn’t seem to mind the arguing, more interested in talking to Wystan, but Bucky didn’t like it. Wystan couldn’t keep his eyes off Steve, even as he went on and on about some poetry or another Steve should be reading.

Thank goodness Gypsy Rose Lee was making the drinks and cracking the jokes or Bucky would have considered it the worst night he’d ever spent getting plastered. He could hardly believe the famous burlesque dancer was hanging around some dump in Brooklyn, but it was her. He’d seen her perform once, with Tom and his buddies from the dock.

She gave him a coy smile when he couldn’t drag his eyes up from her cleavage, then smacked his face a bit, gently but firmly. The blood rushed… elsewhere and he had to go sit in the living room with the screaming drunks to cool off.

When he’d finally been able to convince Steve it was time to leave February House Wystan had given him a long, half-amused, half-sad look as Steve went to say his goodbyes to the rest of the party.

“Pardon me, I misunderstood,” he said at last in his polite British accent.

“Excuse me?” Bucky asked.

“I meant no harm. I do apologize. I thought… but no matter,” he said with a little shrug of his shoulders.

“Thought what?”

“I did not realize affections were already in place.”

“It ain’t like that,” Bucky snapped, realizing what the man was implying.

“Indeed?”

Bucky felt his face grow hot. “Steve is… Steve is not…” he faltered.

“Perhaps you should ask Steve what he is, and is not, rather than speaking for him.” Wystan’s wide mouth curled up slightly, and then Steve reappeared.

“Ready to go, Bucky?”

Bucky nodded.

Steve offered his hand to Wystan, “thank you, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll be sure to get that book about Yeats you mentioned.”

“Yeats?” Bucky asked when they were on the street again.

“He’s an Irish poet.”

“I know who he is, but why do you want to read a book about him?”

“Why not? Just because you don’t care a fig for culture doesn’t mean the rest of us should let our brains rot.”

“I’ll show you culture,” Bucky declared, wrapping his arm around Steve’s neck and dragging him in to muss his neatly combed hair.

“Hey! Lay off!” Steve shouted, fighting back, but laughing at the same time.

Bucky breathed easier after that. His buddy Steve was back.

They walked on, quieter but in the comfortable way they’d always had.

“Hey, did you hear the Fifth Avenue el demolition started?” Steve asked after a few minutes.

“Bound to happen soon,” Bucky said. “They closed the thing back in June.”

“Remember the time we missed our stop and ended up at the 65th terminal on the last train of the night?” Steve grinned.

Bucky did remember. It was July, and the fans in the subway car hardly moved the air at all. The windows were all down, but that didn’t stop the backs of his arms from sticking to the red leather seats. And Steve had fallen asleep, his head resting on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky hadn’t wanted to move him. He would have stayed like that forever as they rattled along the elevated train tracks with the dark city streets spreading out before them, all alone in their car. And then the long, miserable walk home with Steve wheezing and breathing heavy in the muggy, hot night air.

“Because you wouldn’t get off the train until you were sure that little kid got home safe,” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Neither did you,” Steve shot back.

“Well, how could I? You wouldn’t get off, and I’m with you until the end of the line.” Bucky tipped back his chin and gave Steve his best toe-curling smile, just like he did with all the girls.

“Whew. That was a stinker, Bucky,” Steve made a face and shook his head.

“You think so? I thought it was real catchy.” It was silly to feel hurt that his charm didn’t work on Steve. But Steve was his best friend after all. Of course he’d be able to see through the flirtation.

“Nope. Definitely off the cob. Leave the poetry to the professionals, will ya?”

“Like your friend Auden and his buddy Yeats?” Bucky teased.

“What does that even mean?” Steve asked, “‘I’m with you until the end of the line’?”

“It means I’ll stick by you until the end no matter what.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, it’s pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Not Yeats good, but it’s nice. I’m with you to the end of the line too, Buck.” Steve slanted his eyes over and gave Bucky a big smile.

Next week Bucky picked up a battered copy of poems by Yeats and read it on the fire escape while smoking cigarettes so Steve wouldn’t come out. He had to admit, the guy had a way with words.

Next week he picked up a battered copy of poems by Yeats and read it on the fire escape while smoking cigarettes so Steve wouldn’t come out. He had to admit, the guy had a way with words.

 

_October 1941_

“You done?” Bucky asked, wiping his dripping face with the threadbare towel, and then rubbing his armpits with it. 

"Yeah, just finished. First ad, what do you think?” Steve propped up the matte board on his easel.

“It’s good. Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Would I lie to you? You know they’ve just been holding off on giving you more because they don’t want to lose your lettering.”

“I guess. There’s still some spots I think need some work,” Steve scrunched up his face, eyeing the painting like it’d insulted him to his face.

“You gonna get dressed soon?” Bucky asked to distract him.

He turned back to the small mirror tacked up on the wall and began combing his wet hair into place.

“I dunno, Buck. I was thinking of going over to see Wystan. He asked me to drop by again.”

Bucky spun around. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I promised Dot you’d come. Her sister’s been asking about you.”

“Franny? Isn’t she fifteen?”

“Try eighteen, and since when are you picky about girls?”

“Since I get dragged along with you to every stinkin’ dance hall when your dates have some friend or sister they need palmed off.”

“Well, if you danced with them you might actually have a good time. Ever think of that?”

“Right, what a dummy! Why didn’t I realize that?” Steve thunked his head with his hand and rolled his eyes.

Bucky rolled his eyes right back, fists on his hips. “You just need a little practice is all,” he announced, flicking on the radio on the shelf above their little kitchen counter. “Come on, this’ll do.”

He grabbed Steve’s left hand and wrapped an arm around his thin hips, pulling him in closer. They swung around the small room in time to the music a few times before Bucky lost his patience.

“Stop being a limp rag and dance,” he ordered.

Steve, who had been flopping along, pulled back. “How am I supposed to learn the steps if you’re the one doing the leading?”

“Fine, show me what you got, hot stuff,” Bucky dropped his hands and waited. He smirked a bit when that threw Steve for a loop.

“Uh, okay. Uh,” Steve stumbled over where to put his hands.

“Arm out here?” Bucky asked, lifting his right hand.

Steve fit his hand there so that they were palm to palm. Steve might be a small guy but his hands and feet had always been big. He was always tripping over his feet. Big, to match his nose, which he also uses to get into trouble with, Bucky liked to tease.

He stepped closer, into Steve’s space. Steve smelled like oil paints, turpentine, and rubber eraser, but Bucky didn’t mind. It was Steve’s familiar smell.

“Hands here,” he took Steve’s left hand and placed it on his own lower back. It was warm, and the feeling against his undershirt was pleasant. Steve stared up at him from under a fall of blonde hair. Bucky felt something in his insides swoop and he had to force himself to breathe normally.

“Okay, all yours pal,” he said airily when he knew he could manage it. Steve looked so serious, standing there ready to dance to the soothing horns of Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade”. Then he nodded and stepped off his left foot on the beat.

They spun around the room, gliding along with the slow beat. Bucky wondered why they hadn’t practiced like this before. Maybe if he’d tried it, he could have gotten Steve to come out more often.

He loved dancing. He loved feeling the music in his feet, and the lovely way his partner moved under his hands, how nice it was holding someone close, and smelling their soap and feeling their hand on him. The stuffy, dingy little room fell away as they danced.

“See?” Bucky said at the end of the song, “there’s nothing to it. And it’s way better than some English poet.”

“How would you know? You hardly even spoke to him when I took you there last time.”

“Who wants to talk literary when Gypsy Rose Lee is in the kitchen pouring drinks?” Bucky asks in disbelief.

Bucky went into the bedroom, then stuck his head back out. “Get dressed!” he ordered Steve, throwing a clean shirt at his head.

“Fine!” Steve shouted back and started unbuttoning his shirt, heading for the bedroom as well.

“It’s not the same,” Steve muttered. “You don’t care that I step on your toes.”

“Neither will Franny. She’s just happy to come along.”

Steve turned his back to Bucky, even though they had been roommates for months and grew up together. Starting around fifteen he stopped being comfortable undressing around Bucky. Bucky chalked it up to the fact that it was when he began to realize he might not catch up to Bucky’s growth spurt, or that he might not fill out as Bucky had started to.

Bucky shook his head, slipping his arms into his clean shirt. Steve had always been prickly about the fact that he was short and slight. And got constant colds, and couldn’t afford the glasses he needed. Bucky got it, kinda. But on the other hand, it was just a body. It wasn’t _Steve_.

It didn’t change the fact that he’s the best artist Bucky ever saw, and the best damned friend a guy could ever want. Of course Wystan Auden wanted to him to come over.

Too bad Bucky got there first.

“Getting cold,” Steve announced when they were out on the street.

“You need a scarf?” Bucky asked, quick and worried.

Last winter Steve got bronchitis and sounded like he was hacking up a lung with every cough. It made Bucky physically ache to hear it. Sarah Rogers had died earlier that fall, and it was Steve’s first year on his own in the boarding house. Bucky had spent the whole month of January buttoning up Steve’s coat and tucking his scarf around his throat twice, then badgering his mother to make soup and inviting Steve over for dinner.

“It’s barely even October, Buck, I think I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll warm up while you’re dancing,” Bucky assured him, then caught sight of Dot and Franny waiting for them on the corner.

“Come on,” he ordered, hurrying his step and throwing his arms wide. “Hiya, ladies. Don’t you both look swell?” he asked with his best charming half-smile. Bucky knew the effect he had on people. Not just women. He liked it.

He loved people, actual people, not just the idea of people, which is what he thought Steve cared more about sometimes. Steve grew up fighting for the little guy, not just himself, but anybody getting pushed around. He believed passionately in justice and the rights of man, and he could care about people a lot too, when he let his guard down. But, Bucky thought most people misjudged Steve, and treated him a certain way, and that just made Steve close up when it came to face to face interactions.

Luckily, Franny was not one of those people, so Steve ended up having a good time. Bucky even saw the two of them spinning awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor. At least they were dancing. He jerked his head in their direction during a slow song.

“Look at that, they hit it off,” he said fondly to Dot. Dot arched her neck to see, and smiled.

“Franny’s a sweet girl. And she was so excited to come she’d dance with anybody.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, not liking her tone.

“Nothing. Only, you know, it’s Steve Rogers,” she shrugged.

“Yeah, and he’s my best pal.”

“I never could understand that. A guy like you, running around with a wimpy little guy like him.”

Bucky pulled back, bumping into other dancers who cried out in surprise. “You know, Dot, I’ve gotta get going. It was real…” he scrunched up his face, trying to figure out how exactly he wanted to end that sentence, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.

He turned and started to push through the crowd.

“Hey, wait!” Dot grabbed his elbow and he spun back to her.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Steve’s a nice guy, he is. And I appreciate the fact that he’s making Franny happy,” she said, giving him a wheedling smile.

Bucky still wasn’t satisfied, but if he left now he’d have to make up some lie for Steve about their hasty departure, and Steve was the only person besides his ma who knew when he was lying. Only, unlike his ma, he wouldn’t always call him out. It’d just stay there, under the skin.

He sighed and took her hand again. She smiled prettily up at him, but the effect of her lipstick and dress and swinging hips were lost on him now.

Afterward, as they were walking home, hands shoved in their pockets, Bucky nudged Steve with an elbow. “So, that Franny?”

“She was nice,” Steve nodded.

“Didn’t complain at all when I stepped on her toes.” He gave a huff of breath that passed for a laugh and shook his head.

“Well, call her up sometime. See if she’ll go out again with you.”

“What, you mean my personal dating service has closed up shop?”

“You don’t need me to get you dates. You need me to drag you to the ones you’ve already got. Besides, I don’t know if I’m going to go out with Dot anymore.”

“Dot? What’s wrong with her? You sure seemed into her earlier.”

“Eh, I dunno.” Bucky began whistling one of the tunes from the night, shuffling his feet in a one man dance, hands still stuffed into his pockets. He _wanted_ Steve to have another date with Franny. He did. But he felt so… sick about it. Why, he didn’t think he could say.

 

_November 1941_

Bucky woke up shivering. The wind howled along the city streets, tunneling between buildings, and it felt like all of it had found its way into the cracked window in their living room. His blankets were thin and never seemed to cover his toes when he pulled them up to cover his shoulders.

Bucky hated the cold. Hated it worse than the smells that the summer heat brought, and the sticky feeling of sweat under his clothes. Winter made him feel poorer than he actually was. It reminded him of the toughest days of 1933 when no one had work, and the cold seemed to dig into his bones and stay there. He rolled off the settee, pulling the blankets around his body, and shuffled, still half asleep into the bedroom.

Steve groaned when Bucky knelt on the bed.

“Shove over,” Bucky demanded, pushing at Steve’s shoulder. Steve obeyed, and Bucky slid into the warm spot his body left, draping the rest of the blankets over them both.

“What?” Steve muttered when Bucky’s cold nose pressed into the back of his neck.

“’S cold,” Bucky replied, the words muffled by pillow and Steve’s hair.

He wrapped an arm around Steve, pulling him closer, and they fell asleep.

When they woke up they talked about the cold, they talked about the crack in the window, they talked about work. They did not talk about the sleeping arrangements.

After five more nights of Bucky pushing his way into the bed in the middle of the night, Steve looked at him as he was making up the settee with sheets and blankets.

“Come on,” he said, rolling his eyes and heading into the bedroom.

From then on, Bucky and Steve shared the bed. Bucky told himself it was only for the winter, but he was fine with the arrangement, not only because the settee was too short and he was tired of his feet dangling, and the lumps under his back. He and Steve had always shared his bed when they were kids, only stopping when they got too big to fit, so it hadn’t ever been a big deal to him.

But Steve got touchy about certain things, and Bucky never knew when he’d draw the line and decide something was too “pansy” for him. He wouldn’t come out and say that though, because Steve never said anything hurtful or unkind about anyone other than himself. But he’d wince and say, ‘I don’t think we should, Buck’ and Bucky would know. Someone had gotten to him and made him think something stupid. Like the time he’d stopped drawing for a year in high school because some teacher implied that all the best artists were… _that way_. Bucky had had to do a lot of shouting that year to get it through Steve’s thick head that the teacher was a cretin and didn’t know shit about art.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Parts of this story are inspired by The Ninth Hour, by Alice McDermott, my second favorite book about Brooklyn after A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (which might have also inspired things. I'm not sure.) Other parts, like the taking turns sleeping on the settee part are inspired by Madeleine L'Engle's A Small Rain. 
> 
> EDITED:  
> \- *Brooklyn* College was a place Bucky could have taken night classes, but I'm not certain he could have taken engineering classes and then transferred the credits later to Manhattan City College (which was a senior college, meaning you had to go elsewhere for your first two years). For this, I used a little creative license and decided Brooklyn College, which was a two year school, works as a community college does today so Bucky could work and study and eventually become an engineer. This was also important because it would help him stay out of the war for a while longer, as Bucky doesn't ship out immediately in Captain America: First Avenger and one of the ways that would have happened is if he were in school or had a necessary job. 
> 
> \- W.H. Auden really did live in Brooklyn around this time period in a house called February House where Gypsy Rose Lee really did live as one of his roommates. His poem "The More Loving One" gave me the title for this work, and his romantic relationship with Charles gave me inspiration for this story. I decided that he and Steve might have run into each other as Auden was politically active in socialist circles and Steve was clearly a socialist too. Bucky was seeing How Green Was My Valley, which was in theatres at this time in 1941. 
> 
> (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/more-loving-one http://www.curledup.com/febhouse.htm)


	4. Steve Gets Sick and Bucky Gets Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up when Bucky is dreaming, and it's a bit awkward.  
> Bucky takes care of Steve while he's sick and if he didn't know before just how important Steve is to him, he does now.

Steve was having a dream. He knew it was a dream because no one had ever clutched his hips like that, sending heat down his spine straight to his cock. Someone was whispering against his ear and he squirmed closer to hear, the tickling made him need to have more contact. He drifted, not wanting to move in case he woke up, it was so nice.

A moan escaped his lips.

Slowly, whoever was touching him in his dream began to rock against him, groaning in rhythm. He recognized the voice and froze, waking up completely.

Rolling onto his stomach dislodged the hand from his hips. Instead, it slid across his waist, right over his ass. Steve turned his head and whispered, “Bucky.”

Bucky’s mouth lifted in a half-smile but his eyes remained shut.

“Bucky, wake up,” he whispered again.

Bucky groaned, pulling Steve closer to him and sliding his hand to his hip.

“Bucky, cut it out,” he said, more insistent this time. That woke Bucky up, his eyes snapping open.

“What’s wrong? You sick?” he asked, his voice rough as it always was first thing in the morning.

“You’re… having a dream,” Steve managed.

“Was I screaming or something?”

“No, you were… uh…” Steve could feel his face begin to burn.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was asleep.” Bucky frowned and pulled his hand away from where it had still been curled around Steve’s hip.

“I know. It’s fine.”

“No, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in a situation.”

“It’s fine, Bucky, really.” His face must be the color of brick right now. “You didn’t hurt me or anything.”

“Yeah, ok. Just go back to sleep.” Bucky buried his hands under his pillow and got comfortable again.

Steve rolled back over but now he was cold. He missed Bucky’s warmth against his back.

“Was it a good dream, at least?” he asked.

Bucky shifted behind him, “Aw, I dunno. It was a dream.”

“Seemed like a good dream,” Steve said into his pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bucky’s alarm went off Steve was still asleep, curled on his side. Bucky didn’t try to wake him. He was still hot and bothered from the dream he’d had, the one that had woken Steve. He didn’t really want to see his face. It was uncomfortable enough to have a dream about your best friend. It was even worse to do it while curled up around that best friend. Better to get to work and let the day help them both forget.

But work was slow, and what work he had didn’t distract him enough. When had his friendship with Steve turned into something more to him? He didn’t know the answer. Because it had always been there, or because his friendship had always been so important, Bucky didn’t know. All he knew was that at some point between twelve and now Steve had stopped being just the skinny, sickly, too brave for his own good, best friend he’d ever had, and somehow started to be more.

Steve had a mouth that was too full for his narrow face, but it was his eyes that had always captivated Bucky. They were light blue, surrounded by a darker blue, and framed by black lashes and heavy brows that were always focusing on something he was drawing with an intensity that made Bucky shiver.

Maybe it was the fact that he was nearsighted, or maybe he was just seeing things for what they truly were, ignoring everything around him while he looked carefully at that one thing, and then drew it. His brows came together, and the full force of Steve’s attention was like the sun’s beam through a looking glass.

Bucky had always wanted to be drawn by Steve. To have the focus of Steve’s eyes on him as he drew both terrified and aroused him. What would Steve see when Bucky just shut up and sat still and allowed himself to be sketched?

By the time his shift at the dock was done Bucky was an achy, needy mess. His body felt used up, and his mind was soft from replaying the dream, then adding to it, dragging out his lust until one look, or a careful touch would send him spiraling, begging to be put out of his misery. The dreams had only gotten worse over the past few weeks they’d been sleeping in the same bed. Bucky was half afraid to fall asleep now. But he did it anyway because where else would he get to kiss those stupidly big lips?

He couldn’t take it anymore. He should go into Manhattan tonight, he thought. He would find the clubs where he’d heard men danced with other men. Maybe that would get it out of his system. Otherwise, he might end up spilling his guts to Steve, which would ruin everything.

Bucky pulled himself along the staircase with his left arm, since his legs were protesting the climb up the five flights. Tucked under his right arm was the newspaper-wrapped fish they always had on Friday nights. His stomach swam with both longing for and the anxiety of seeing Steve after the dream.

Neither of them was really religious. Steve’s ma hadn’t had much use for church and needed the extra pay from Sunday shifts, and Bucky had been able to stop going to mass when he and Steve had moved in together. He told his mother that he was going to the services closer to their place, and since she had her hands full with four younger siblings, she didn’t have much time to keep track of him. But, fish on Friday was more of a Brooklyn tradition than something they chose themselves. And Bucky loved fried fish.

“Hiya, I’m home!” he shouted when he pushed the door open. Steve’s easel stood by the window but the brushes were still in their jars and the paints on the palette weren’t fresh. Bucky frowned.

“Bucky?” Steve called from the bedroom. His voice was strained and weak.

The lust in Bucky's gut disappeared, replaced with something more frightening. Bucky dropped the bundle of newspapers and fish on the table and pushed open the bedroom door. It was dim, the only light coming from the window that looked down on the air shaft, but he saw Steve huddled under blankets.

“Steve, are you sick?” he asked, shoving the clothes and books off a chair by the door. He scooted the chair closer to the bed and winced at the loud scraping sound it made. Steve shuddered too. Bucky dropped into the chair and pressed the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead, like he’d seen his ma, and Steve’s ma do over the years. It was warm and clammy.

“You’re burning up. How long you been in bed?”

“Since you left,” Steve croaked. “Woke up like this. I’m all achy. Shivery. Hot.”

“What else hurts?”

“Throat.”

“I’m going to turn the light on and look down your throat, okay?” He switched on the lamp and waited for it to warm up to its full brightness.

“Say ‘Ah’” he coaxed, and Steve opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue. He was used to the drill.

Bucky peered in but didn’t see the white spots his little sisters had had when they went through strep.

“Well, you got a tongue in that head, but I already knew that on account of how much you jaw at me.”

Steve gave him a weak smile for his efforts.

Bucky grabbed the pitcher by the bed and was glad to find it empty. At least Steve had been drinking plenty of water.

“I’m going to fill this pitcher up again and you’re going to drink it, you hear?” he ordered, standing to head out to the kitchen.

“Light,” Steve said, lifting one finger in the direction of the lamp. Bucky flicked it off and left the room. Steve was shivering when he came back in, and Bucky piled all the blankets in the house on him.

“Feed a fever, starve a cold,” he muttered to himself, sawing off a hunk of bread from yesterday’s loaf. He poured the few inches of milk remaining over the bread in a bowl and let it sit. It was Ma Roger’s favorite sickbed meal but Steve shook his head and rolled away. Bucky sighed and put it in the icebox for later.

“Want me to read to you?” he asked Steve, whose brow was furrowed and face flushed. This had been Bucky’s role when they were kids and Steve was sick. Ma Rogers nursed and Bucky read. They had a series of books that were saved just for sickbeds. Bucky crouched down and pulled one from the stack under the bed.

 _Treasure Island_. He began the familiar tale.

“’Squire Trelawny, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end…” he read.

Steve pushed down some of the blankets, sweaty rings darkening the white T-shirt under his arms.

When Steve was finally sleeping, Bucky fried up the fish and ate it in the chair next to the bed. He kept an eye on Steve, checking his temperature and adjusting the blankets, continuing to read silently after doing the washing up.

He must have dozed off in his chair because the next thing he remembered was the sound of wheezing coughs. His head flew up and the book tumbled to the floor. Steve was sitting, held up by one arm and coughing so hard it shook his thin body. Each one wracked him, and each inhalation was accompanied with a dragging, shuddering gulp for air.

Bucky knelt on the bed behind him, his heart thumping fast.

“Hey, buddy, I’m here.” He whacked Steve on the back, hoping to dislodge whatever was making his breaths sound so wet and heavy.

“Get… my… nebul—izer,” Steve gasped between coughs. Bucky was off the bed in a second, scrambling to find the breathing apparatus Steve used when his asthma got bad.

“Easel,” Steve managed and Bucky nodded, dodging out of the room to search for the glass contraption by the easel.

When he came back he squeezed the precious drops of epinephrine into the base and mixed it with water, just like he’d watched Ma Rogers do. Steve held it to his face and Bucky squeezed the rubber bulb at the end gently, watching the fine mist rush through the glass tubes. Steve inhaled, and slowly, the tightness about his face began to relax. His breathing still sounded reedy, but not nearly as labored.

Bucky felt the bands around his chest loosen as well. When no more medicine could be inhaled Steve fell back against the pillows and stared up at him through slitted eyes. Bucky set the nebulizer carefully on the floor by the bed.

“You okay?” he asked, reaching a hand out to check Steve’s forehead again.

“Don’t,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky by the wrist.

“What? You have a fever. I need to check it.”

“You aren’t my ma, Bucky.” Steve’s voice was raw from coughing.

“I know that, but I still gotta take care of you.”

“Just need sleep,” Steve muttered, rolling onto his side.

The fever returned and Steve shuddered and sweated throughout the night. Bucky pulled the settee into the small room and slept nearby, waking whenever Steve’s breathing grew worse and forcing water down his throat whenever he could.

In the morning Steve wasn’t any better but woke for a little while so that Bucky could check his throat again. He submitted silently this time, but Bucky wasn’t certain how much he was even aware of.

He clattered down the steps and begged Mrs. O’Malley to check on him while Bucky went in for his half-shift. She agreed and Bucky ran the whole way to the docks to make it on time.

When he returned, Mrs. O’Malley tsked and shook her head.

“That poor sick lad. Do you want me to call the nuns to care for him?” she asked in her gravelly voice.

“No, I don’t think it will be necessary. I’m here tonight. I know what to do.” Steve hated when the nuns showed up. He’d spent so much of his childhood being looked after one or another of them.

But they offered a service and Mrs. Rogers couldn’t exactly afford other forms of healthcare. Bucky thought they gave their mournful warnings of Steve’s inevitable death a little too gleefully, always urging Mrs. Rogers to call for a priest, even though they knew she never attended Mass.

It was an unacknowledged truth. Mrs. Rogers didn’t go, and the nuns pretended it was simply because she had to work any shifts she could, as a single mother and widow. Steve went with the Barnes because it made life easier in the Irish part of Brooklyn to not piss off the nuns.

“He is too skinny,” she said. “I’ll make him a stew.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’d appreciate it,” Bucky said, already looking towards the bedroom. After he checked on Steve he headed back out to replenish their medicine cabinet at the druggist. When he returned Steve was awake, red-eyed and silent in the bed.

“You doing any better?” Bucky asked.

Steve frowned. “Drank some water.”

“That’s good. Mrs. O’Malley is going to bring up some stew. I want you to eat that too.”

“Throat hurts.”

“Let me check it again,” Bucky sat on the side of the bed and brushed the sweaty hair from Steve’s forehead. Steve turned into the touch.

“Hurts everywhere.”

“I’ll bet. You just open up and let me look though.”

Steve obeyed, and Bucky craned his neck but still saw no white spots, thankfully.

“I think you just got a bug. Lots of rest and liquids, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the routine,” Steve groaned, rolling over and taking the blankets with him. He slept again, and ate when Mrs. O’Malley brought the stew, but then grew hotter with every hour.

Bucky fretted and hovered while he tried to do homework for his classes by Steve’s bed. Steve threw off the blankets and Bucky pulled them back over his shoulders. Steve shivered for a good half hour, even under all the blankets, and sweated at the same time.

Bucky made him sit up and stripped the wet pajamas off his body, pulling on a clean t-shirt. Steve murmured something that sounded like ‘thanks’ when he lay back down.

His breathing slowed around three in the morning. Bucky was dozing on the settee but the change in Steve’s breathing made him start.

“Steve, you okay?” he whispered, fumbling for the light. Steve didn’t jerk his head when the light flared into existence. He looked paler than he had in the past two days, and it seemed like it was taking his chest too long to rise each time.

“Steve, please,” Bucky whispered, his voice hoarse and scared even to his own ears. “Steve, you gotta keep breathing, nice and slow and steady, okay?”

He stared at the knobby ridges of Steve’s ribcage under the threadbare t-shirt. It rose again, but so slowly he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not. Grabbing Steve’s wrist he checked the pulse like he’d watched Steve’s ma do. It took a few tries for his fingers to find the spot where Steve’s blood pumped through his body, and it was so faint that it filled Bucky with cold fear.

“Steve, please. You gotta get better,” he mumbled, afraid even to say the words.

He stayed like that for he didn’t know how long, watching Steve’s chest rise, keeping track of the blips of his pulse. There was nothing else he could do. He was a poor dockhand going to college at night and Steve a commercial artist. They had no money other than the twenty-five dollars in his sock drawer from getting paid today. He couldn’t afford a doctor and didn’t know who to call at this hour anyway. His family was two neighborhoods and so busy with their own lives that they didn’t have much time for him if he wasn’t the one stopping by. He had nothing without Steve.

And Steve was dying. Maybe not tonight. He’d pulled through before. But everyone knew Steve wasn’t going to make it very far in adulthood. The doctors had been saying that since he was a kid. Bucky had steadfastly refused to believe it. Steve accepted it with tired resignation, but Bucky hadn’t ever let him say it without pushing back. Only, now… Bucky’s chin crumpled and he bit his lower lip but the tears came anyway, spilling over his sleep-crusted eyelashes and onto his cheeks. He wiped them away with the flat of one palm, but they kept coming. Looking up, he blinked hard.

“Steve, I swear to god, you can’t do this to me. You can’t leave me like this. Steve, if you go what the fuck am I supposed to do? You’re my best friend— I…” he choked on the next words and they came out in a thick garble of tears and snot.

He hadn’t ever said anything like the truth to Steve his whole life and now it was too late. He’d blown it and Steve was leaving him. The certainty of that sank into his guts, tearing him open like a raw, black wound. Leaning his head against the bed he clutched Steve’s hand and cried for the friend he loved.

Eventually, he fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep.

Bucky felt the pain in his knees first. Through the blackness he felt his joints screaming and he shifted, wondering why he was on his knees. Then he felt the cold cutting through him and realized he was on the floor. Awareness flooded through his veins like an icy, chemical concoction. Steve was dead. When he opened his eyes Steve would be dead. He was certain of it.

 _Open your eyes, Bucky_.

 _No. I don’t want to_.

_Open your eyes. You’re going to have to face this._

When he opened his eyes he was going to have to call the hospital, and the mortician and do everything else a person did when someone died. He was going to have to do all that with this blackness in his guts, and the knowledge of Steve's absence in front of his eyes. Everything would be shoving Steve’s death in his face over and over, like a sick prank.

Bucky opened his eyes, steeling himself for the sight of Steve’s blue face and cold skin. He lifted his head, his neck screaming in protest. It was morning, the weak sunlight filtered through their airshaft and trickled over the bedclothes. Over Steve’s body.

His chest rose.

Bucky shoved himself up onto the bed, his numb feet slipping on the cold floorboards. He dropped his head to Steve’s chest and listened. It rose against his ear and he nearly shouted. Placing his hands on either side of Steve’s jaw he felt his cheeks for fever but it was gone. The damp hair plastered to Steve’s skin the only sign it had been there at all.

“Oh thank the fucking Christ,” he mumbled, feeling the tears come again.

“Language,” Steve muttered, a pill even now.

Bucky laughed a surprised sob.

Steve was alive.

 

Steve was back on his feet after two days, but shaky and pale. Whenever Bucky tried to coerce him back to the bed for rest he gave him dirty looks and went about his business slowly and carefully. Bucky nearly broke his back trying to do everything for him first so he wouldn’t have to exert himself.

Finally, Steve snapped.

“I can do it myself, Bucky!” he roared when Bucky grabbed the tin bathtub full of water and headed to dump it. Then he started coughing.

Bucky carefully avoided saying anything. He’d been doing that constantly since that night when he thought Steve was dying. It wasn’t the right time, he told himself. Steve is still sick, and definitely too weak. He doesn’t need my problems, too.

So, Bucky grinned his usual grin and worked on making his friend laugh, and eat, and get stronger, and the words clawing their way up his chest got pushed back down until they weren’t so noticeable anymore. Not when he didn’t think about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nebulizers were the early treatment for asthma. The first was steam-powered in 1858, and later ones were electric. The 1930s saw a hand-powered one (the Parke-Davis Glaseptic), and that's the one I imagine Sarah Rogers might have bought. The real cost was the medicine, at least for Steve and Bucky.


	5. A Day That Will Live in Infamy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk of war, and a lazy Sunday afternoon in December...

_December 1941_

“You think there’ll be fighting?” Bucky asked Tom as they trudged back to the warehouse. It was cold and wind gusts cut through his woolen sweater, finding the wet patches of sweat on his flannel shirt.

“Hell no, the Japanese aren’t crazy enough to fight us. You seen them posters? They’re shrimpy little yellow-bellied fellows.”

“Those aren’t real,” Bucky scoffed. “My buddy Steve knows the guys who have those poster contracts. They make it all up, he says. Don’t even have photos to look at.”

Steve had refused a contract on one of the posters, saying it wasn’t right to draw such disgusting caricatures of a people, even if they were doing horrible things in China. Bucky couldn’t help but agree, except when he did the grocery shopping, eyed the thick steaks at the butcher and thought about how he and Steve could feast for a week on one.

“We’ll be in France before Japan, let me tell you,” Tom wagged his finger in Bucky’s face.

Bucky leaned away. Tom wouldn’t be anywhere. He hadn’t had to register for service on account of his years at the dock, and his age. Valuable employment or something. Bucky hadn’t either, because of his classes and his job, but plenty of other guys he knew were already getting draft cards. Just in case, they were told as they headed off to basic training.

“FDR ain’t going to drag us back into that mess,” Mike O’Grady butted his way into the conversation. Mike had already gone through basic and was just waiting for orders, even though he still said they’d never come.

“I read the papers, same as you,” Tom shot back, “and there’s no way FDR doesn’t go to war against Germany. Hell, we’re already at war with them if you count torpedoing damn U-boats.”

Bucky shuddered. If they had to go to war there was no way you’d get him into one of those submarines. They might be the way of the future, but that was one modern vehicle Bucky wanted no part of. The idea of lying under all that cold water in a metal coffin made him want to scream.

“No way, no way. He’s not that stupid. You know how long Germany’s been preparing for this war? Besides, if you’re wrong, and them Japanese want war we’d be fighting on two fronts,” Mike countered.

“He’s extended the security zone by an extra thousand miles, and you think the Germans are just going to take that? No! They’re going to attack, and then we’ll go to war,” Tom was nearly shouting over Mike now.

“We’ll give ‘em hell!” Bucky said by rote. It was his common response to anything even vaguely war related.

He couldn’t seem to care much about the news lately. He was too worried about Steve’s cough, which hadn’t gone away. And the fact that they were running low on fuel, and bread was two cents more a loaf than it was last month.

Not like Steve who poured over the papers each night, telling him the day’s events while Bucky did the washing up. Or Tom who recounted what he read every morning.

It was funny, Bucky thought, how war turned even the dumbest men into voracious readers and expert debaters, when they hadn’t cared a drop for it in school. Not that Steve was a dummy. And Tom, either.

Mike, was, though. He’d go on proclaiming that war wasn’t going to happen right up until he faced the enemy on the battlefield. Bucky didn’t like to think about it, but he didn’t see how FDR could keep them out of war much longer.

 

* * *

 

_December 7_

On Sunday Bucky slept in. He had been up for nearly twenty-four hours, first at work, then meeting with his study group to prepare for finals, which were coming up in the next week. He burrowed under the covers, then pressed his cold nose to the back of Steve’s neck. Steve gave a yelp, and squirmed away. Bucky fell back asleep mid-chuckle.

When he did finally wake up it was well into the afternoon. There was music on the radio and coffee smells lingering in the air. Steve was drawing at the easel by the window when Bucky shuffled in.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” yawned Bucky, stretching up to shake the last of sleep off him.

He poured a cup of warmish coffee and got a bun, only one day stale, out of the oven where they’d been keeping hot, and dropped onto the settee.

“Hold still for a sec?” Steve asked, reaching for a pad of sketch paper.

“Can I drink my coffee at least, while you immortalize my morning splendor?” Bucky asked.

Steve snorted at that, but nodded.

Bucky sipped the coffee, letting the scent and the warmth flow through him as the bitter flavor filled his mouth.

“Remember that chicory stuff my mom used to buy when things got thin?” he asked.

“Or how mine would leave a pot percolating all day so by the end it was like drinking tar?”

“I sure am grateful this is neither,” Bucky said, sipping the black brew again.

Things might not be perfect, but give him coffee, late mornings with Steve bent over a sketch book (the winter sun turning his hair wheat-gold) and Bucky would be happy. He took a bite of his bun.

“Wanna go back to February House tonight?” he asked when he’d swallowed. He was feeling generous.

“Nah,” Steve said as he used his thumb to smudge shade into the drawing.

“Why not?”

“They broke up house. Only Benjamin and Wystan are there anymore, and Wystan is busy with grading finals and an article he’s working on.”

“They broke up house? But why?”

“Wystan said the arguing was getting to be too much for everyone. Frankly, he seemed a bit relieved. I think he was growing tired of playing mother. Especially since Charles moved out.”

“Who’s Charles?”

“You didn’t know? He was Wystan’s…” Steve faded off, growing red in the face, and Bucky shifted up a bit on the cushions.

“I said hold still,” Steve ordered.

Bucky froze.

“Sorry,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “I guess I was a bit surprised. I didn’t know he… had someone.”

“Yeah, well it had been dragging out for ages but it’s over now. You couldn’t tell how sad Wystan was when we were there?”

“Sure, but I’d never met the guy, so how was I supposed to know?”

“I think he hides a great deal of what he feels,” Steve mused. “When he might be happier if he were able to come out and say what he wanted. I guess I don’t really understand that. You only get one life, y’know?”

“Maybe it’s not so easy for him. Maybe he’s afraid,” Bucky said, thinking of what Wystan had told him when they'd left February House that night. 

“Most of our fears are made up, I think. And we’re chained by them, but if we realized they were imaginary there’s nothing we couldn’t do,” he mused almost to himself.

“You have fears, Stevie?” Bucky asked. He never heard Steve speak about anything even resembling a fear. Steve was the bravest man Bucky knew. Stupidly brave sometimes.

“Of course I do,” he said in a low voice. “I’m afraid I won’t be good enough, when the time comes.”

“If a person can’t see how good you are, then they aren’t worth hanging around,” Bucky told him, meaning it.

“Tell that to the Army.”

“I’ll tell it to any army that asks.”

“The U.S. Army? They don’t think I’m good enough. At least not for fighting.”

Bucky’s body stiffened and his fingers slipped on the coffee mug. When he spoke, his voice was rough in his own ears.

“Why the hell would you be fighting the U.S. Army? They’ll definitely kick your ass,” he teased.

Steve rolled his eyes at the dumb joke but it was enough for Bucky. The tension had loosened around his chest slightly.

“Fighting for the U.S. Army, dumbo,” Steve corrected.

“And why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?” Bucky asked.

“Come on, Bucky. You know war is coming, same as me. I gotta do my part.”

“By fighting?” Bucky couldn’t quite get enough breath for a second.

“What else would you have me do? Run messages? File paperwork?”

“I dunno. Paint propaganda posters. ‘Uncle Sam needs you!’ That sort of thing.”

“That’s what you think of me? That’s all I’m good for?”

“No, Steve. I think you’re a talented artist who has a real skill not many guys have. Guys like me are the ones who got nothing better to offer.” He clunked his coffee mug down on the side table to emphasize the point. He thought he might shatter it if he were to hold it any longer.

“‘Nothing better to offer,’” Steve muttered. “You’re practically an engineering genius. And physically fit thanks to baseball.”

“I am very far from an engineering genius, and I haven’t got any kind of a degree to prove it. As far as the Army cares, I’m just an Irish dockhand who gets into fights and could probably carry a gun and learn how to shoot it.”

“I’ve got the same right as you to fight.”

“Yeah, but why would you want to?”

“You wouldn’t understand, I guess.”

“You’re damn right I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you’d want to risk death just to prove you’re worth something. Don’t you know you’re the most important thing in my life? That isn’t good enough for you?”

Bucky knew he should shut up but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The feelings that had been eating through him since Steve’s last bout of illness finally spilled out. He’d sat fully upright now, glaring at Steve across the tiny living room.

Steve stiffened, his eyes on Bucky. When he spoke his voice was low but steady. “What do you mean?”

“You know good and well what I mean.”

“Most important friend?”

“Yes, goddamnit.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” Bucky said, looking up and locking eyes with him at last.

There was a long silence, then Steve carefully set aside the sketch pad and tackled Bucky.

“Oof,” Bucky grunted. Steve knew how to throw around what little weight he had.

But then his fingers were in Bucky’s hair, and his mouth was pressed hard against Bucky’s lips. Bucky eagerly tilted his head up for more. Steve’s fingers pulled his hair and he groaned at the tingling pleasure of the pain along his scalp.

When they broke the kiss neither of them moved, their lips were still inches apart. Steve blinked.

“Wow,” Bucky breathed.

Steve frowned. “Is that how you meant it?”

“Hell yes, that’s how I meant it.” Bucky leaned forward to try and restart the kissing.

“Language,” Steve reprimanded, but he was smiling.

Just as their lips met, someone pounded on their door. They jerked apart.

“What the fuck?” Bucky yelped.

“Bucky, Steve! You hearing this?” It was Mr. Simpkins from downstairs, as loud as ever.

Steve jumped up and crossed the room, pulling open the door. Mr. Simpkins barreled into the apartment and Steve stepped back to let him or else get pushed over. He waved a folded up newspaper at Bucky.

“Turn that thing to the Dodgers game. They just interrupted the broadcast. The Japanese are bombing us! _Us_!”

Bucky lunged for the radio and static crackled through the apartment while he spun the dial looking for the correct station. His fingers shook and it took him longer than it should. While he rolled through the stations Mr. Simpkins paced the room and Steve was frozen, still holding onto the doorknob. Then a clipped voice blared into the room.

_“Again, we interrupt this broadcast to bring you urgent news from U.S. Naval base in Honolulu, Hawaii. We are getting reports of a surprise attack at Pearl Harbor, and the severe bombing of naval warships by enemy planes reported to be Japanese. This is not a joke. This is a real war. The public of Honolulu have been advised to stay in their homes, away from the Army and Navy bases. At this time damage estimates cannot be confirmed but witnesses tell NBC that it has been a very serious attack. Numbers of dead and wounded have not been released but the Navy and Army appear to have the situation in control at this time.”_

“Where the hell is Hawaii anyway?” Mr. Simpkins asked.

“In the Pacific ocean. It’s an island,” Steve said as though he was being strangled.

Bucky looked at him sharply, worried that an asthma attack was starting.

“How’d they get there? Japan’s on the other side of the world!” sputtered Mr. Simpkins.

“I dunno,” Bucky said, for lack of anything else to say. He sank down onto the couch again.

“We’re going to war after all this talk about it for years,” Mr. Simpkins proclaimed. “Guess this newspaper is old news already.” He slapped it into his open palm several times.

“But with Japan,” Bucky said. “You don’t think FDR would go to war with Germany as well, do you?”

“Hell if I know. I say let Europe fight Europe. We got involved in that mess once before and let me tell you, I want no part of it again. You couldn’t pay me enough to get back into one of them trenches.”

“Germany has been planning war for over a decade,” Steve said somberly. “They won’t be fighting in trenches again.”

Bucky shivered. He’d heard horror stories of trench warfare. Not from his own father, who had been there and never spoke of it, but from other soldiers. It had terrified him as a kid. Almost as bad as submarines, were trenches.

“Ed doesn’t know,” Mr. Simpkins smacked his forehead and started to charge out the door as fast as he’d entered to find Mr. O’Malley. Then he stopped.

“Mark my words,” he said, turning back at the door and shaking a finger at the two of them, “FDR calls for war tomorrow.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at Simpkins’ retreating back. “Of course it means war. What else are we going to do? Sit back and let them bomb us?”

“You think we’ll go to war with Germany too?” Steve asked, his eyes on the floor.

“Probably. Why not?”

Suddenly, Bucky was so tired he thought he might collapse. He wished he hadn’t woken up yet. That he could do it all over again, and he still had the moment before, with Steve on the couch to look forward to. He looked over at Steve but Steve had turned inward, a frown darkening his face as he no doubt thought about what was happening right this moment in Hawaii.

Standing and moving towards the window, Bucky stared down at the street as a broadcaster came on and repeated the news. People were rushing along the sidewalks, stopping and gathering together, no doubt spreading the word. Looking up, he could gaze across the roofs towards Manhattan’s cityscape. The sky was bright blue, with only a few wispy clouds streaking the horizon. It was so calm and unchanging that he could hardly believe thousands of miles away an American base had been attacked. Sailors and soldiers were dead. Ships were sinking into the harbor, one not terribly unlike the harbor he saw every day. He was filled with a cold, unwavering premonition. War was here, and nothing would ever be the same again.

For long moments he stayed rooted to the spot in front of the window, holding onto the last thin strands of peace and watching the world he’d always known change around him. For the first time since the crash years before, he had been happy. This whole year with Steve had made him happy, but especially this morning, when everything had finally come together. The unspoken feelings that had been simmering under the surface had finally broken free and he had been glad. And now, they were at war. Just his luck. He felt like the world’s biggest jerk for feeling that way, but he couldn’t help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- When Bucky switches the station to the Dodgers game where they've interrupted the broadcast to tell of the bombing of Pearl Harbor: This was the FOOTBALL Brooklyn Dodgers who were playing the New York Giants. 
> 
> \- The broadcast of the attack uses parts of one of the real transcripts, but I had to make changes to fit the story I was telling. (Here is a link to one of the broadcasts at the time: http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/5167)


	6. Bucky Gets Drafted

_July 20, 1942_

Bucky stared down at his draft card. He swallowed hard. The idea still hadn’t sunk in. He’d been staring at the letter for a week, counting down the days and he still couldn’t believe it. He looked up at the brick building. Other men his age were slowly entering the double doors. He wondered if they, too, were as dumbfounded as he was.

Most of the real patriotic gung-ho guys signed up within days and weeks of the bombing. Bucky had college and his work on the docks. He had been exempt.

Steve went, though. Didn’t tell Bucky about it but Bucky knew anyway. He got rejected, and Bucky came home from work to find Steve in a blacker mood than he’d ever seen before.

Bucky found a crumpled rejection slip in the trash but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to say anything. Not after their kiss. Not after war was declared. Nothing was the same anymore.

Steve was angry all the time, a deep lingering anger that lashed out at odd moments. He and Bucky had always been prone to shouting at each other but it was different now.

Now, during their shouting matches, Bucky sometimes thought Steve was actually going to take a swing at him. The idea was there, just under the surface. Bucky would have kinda liked it if Steve did. At least then they’d get somewhere. Instead, Steve just broke off in the middle of an argument and stormed out. And Bucky had too much pride to chase after him so he crashed around the apartment, half-furious and half-worried that Steve would pick a fight with someone who wouldn’t hold back, and he’d get pounded.

Sick of being around an angry Steve, Bucky buried himself in classes, trying to jam as many credits into his last semester as possible so that maybe after the war he could pick back up where he left off. The draft card was coming, he was sure of it. Everyone said college wouldn’t be an exemption for much longer. He would have started applying to Manhattan City College in the spring, but he held off, not sure of his future for the first time in his life.

He used to lay it all out for Steve— work his way through night classes at Brooklyn College, get an engineering degree from a university and start designing bridges, or engines, or buildings. He wasn’t sure which back then.

But they’d always live near each other. They’d always be tangled up in each other’s lives. That was a given. Steve would make art, Bucky would make schematics. The future was bright. Bucky used to feel it coursing around him when he opened a science pulp or read about the latest inventions pouring from Howard Stark’s mind and documented in _LIFE_ magazine. He wasn’t sure when the plans had shifted so that he and Steve weren’t just living near each other, but were living together, but that had made sense too. Who wouldn’t want to live with his best pal?

Only they weren’t just best pals anymore. They hadn’t been since that cold day in December, the one that would live in infamy for so many reasons. But lately, he didn’t know what they were.

Bucky took a deep breath and stepped off the curb, crossing the street and headed for the intake building’s front doors.

He hadn’t told Steve about the draft letter. Steve hadn’t told him about the three other rejections he’d accumulated, so why should Bucky tell him he’d been drafted, not enlisted? It wasn’t like they talked now anyway. Not like they had before.

Bucky entered the building. His shoes echoed on the wide marble of the hallway. His small bag felt heavy. He hadn’t been sure what to bring. All the letter said was to ‘bring clothing sufficient for three days’. What did that even mean?

He followed the signs, lining up behind another man carrying a small bag of his belongings. Stretching out in front of them, wrapping their way around the room, were more young men, all looking nervous and pale under the overhead lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally indebted to mandarou, who created this timeline: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878852/chapters/24170622
> 
> \- I decided to use Brooklyn College as a sort of community college, where Bucky could take night classes and eventually transfer to Manhattan City College and get his engineering degree. From everything I've read, this MIGHT not have been possible, but it did offer night classes and was a two year school. So whose to say exactly?


	7. Captain America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve does something stupid. Or rather, does many stupid things. But at least now he has Bucky again, and the Howling Commandos too.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: Whoops! You might have read the chapter called Red, White and Blew Me and wondered how exactly Steve got into a tent with Bucky when last we saw they were an ocean apart. I mean, obviously we KNOW they're getting together, but I posted these chapters out of order. I thought I fixed it already but just discovered today (3/24) that it was not. 
> 
> It should be: Chapter 7: Captain America, then Chapter 8: Red, White and Blew Me.

Steve took a deep breath.

He didn’t look up in case Agent Carter is watching. He didn’t want to see her looking at his knobby naked chest. His skin pimpled from the cold. His small nipples were like pinpricks. He wondered if this works what he would look like.

Strangely, it is the first time he’d considered the fact that soon he might look down and not see this familiar, thin chest. It had never occurred to him in the weeks of testing they’ve done on him that he might have a different body after it all. Why, he wasn’t sure.

Dr. Erskine had explained all the risks and side effects as well as the possible enhancements, but he’d been so stuck on the idea of being taller and healthier that he didn’t stop to think beyond that. If anything, he just pictured being stretched out a few inches, and able to breath. He hasn’t been able to imagine beyond that.

But now… he took a moment to say goodbye to this body he’s always had. Goodbye weak lungs and windpipe always threatening to close up. Goodbye narrow shoulders and scrawny neck. Goodbye short legs that kept him from joining in the first place. Goodbye thin arms and calves. Goodbye awkwardly large hands and feet and head.

Steve smiled, and looked up. Agent Carter was watching, and so were a roomful of medical staff and an observation deck of government officials. But he didn’t care anymore. Soon he’ll be more than just a science experiment. Soon, he’ll be a soldier.

He climbed onto the cold, metallic surgical table, trying not to think about everyone watching him, focusing on the future instead.  

* * *

 

_October 1943 - Steve_

All of the humiliation of his vaudeville performances was worth it when he found Bucky alive.

He'd been so afraid he would be too late. So afraid that Bucky had been one of the men that hadn't survived. The men in the pens had told him no one returned. But Bucky gaped at him from a dirty surgical table in the cold, dripping basement of a prison camp and he could have wept in relief. 

“Steve?” he asked in disbelief, his monotonous recitation of his identification number halted.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve said, hardly able to believe it really is Bucky.

“I thought you were shorter,” Bucky retorted, groggy and weak from what Steve didn’t want to know.

“Come on, we gotta get you outta here,” he said, helping Bucky up. Bucky couldn’t quite stand on his own, and leaned heavily against Steve. For half a second Steve contemplated just carrying Bucky out of the room but he remembered too well how it felt to be weak and he won’t make Bucky feel that way for anything.

“What happened to you?” Bucky asked in disbelief, apparently still not completely convinced he wasn’t having hallucinations.

“I joined the Army,” replied Steve, his voice chipper and confident to hide the nausea and horror twisting in his belly at the sight of Bucky so bloody and helpless.

“What did you let them do to you?” Bucky asked, leaning against a tunnel wall.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d they get you like that?”

“I signed up for an experiment.”

“Jesus, Mary, motherfucker, you did what?” Bucky roared this part.

“I volunteered for an experiment and got this new body, which is currently saving your sorry self.”

“I don’t care what it’s doing, why the hell did you do it?”

“Come on, Bucky, we got to get out of this place. Can we talk about it later?”

“Did it hurt?” Bucky asked, moving at last.

“A little.”

“You’re fucking lying to me.”

“Okay, what do you want to hear? It hurt a ton.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.”

“You stupid fuck. I knew I shoulda never left you but I had no idea you’d do something so goddamned stupid.”

“Hey, this stupid fuck just broke into a prison to save you and the rest of these men.”

“Don’t give me that. You didn’t write me for a whole year, and now I find you’ve got some whole new body. Is this why you didn’t write?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Steve asked.

They are coming out of the tunnel that led back to the holding pens where he found the rest of the men.

This is why he agreed to the serum, he thought as the men streamed out of the Hydra base. It wasn’t to gin up support for war bonds. It was to be this man in this moment. He should have demanded from the start a chance to fight. But everything had been so overwhelming and his grief and guilt over the death of Dr. Erskine had felt so large, that he’d allowed himself to be persuaded he could do more good in the States. He was only one man after all. Who could have imagined one man could do all this? Certainly not himself. And yet, he did it. With the help of Bucky and the rest of the men.

When Bucky called, “Let’s hear it for Captain America,” and gave him a proud smile he thought his heart would burst. Bucky, who had always been standing up for him, defending him, helping him. Now he could do it for Bucky. It felt good.

“This is why I agreed to the serum,” he told Colonel Phillips when he’s face to face with the pissed off officer back at the Army base.

 

 

“So, you’re sticking around?” asked Bucky in the bar after Steve talked to the men.

“Looks like,” said Steve, giving Bucky a wry half-smile. He doesn’t know what to say to Bucky. All the fear of the rescue mission, finding Bucky in the basement laboratory, and then the daredevil escape back to camp have left him drained and there are no words left for whatever had hung between them back in Brooklyn. They could avoid it all while they were getting out of danger, but now, back on base, he can’t.

For months, Steve has felt guilty and embarrassed by his behavior then. He had been so wrapped up in his sense of what was right and wrong and the injustice of being at war and not being able to do what he felt was his part, that he hadn’t been able to look at Bucky without feeling jealous.

And Bucky had strolled through it all as he had with everything in life. He’d joined up after classes were over, and took his promotion to sergeant as if it had been nothing. He hadn’t even wanted it, Steve knew.

Everyone looked at Bucky and saw a smart, capable, healthy man and fell over themselves giving him whatever they could. Steve knew Bucky’s charms and easygoing manner wasn’t all of who he was, not all the time, but in those months after war was declared and Steve kept getting rejected anger blinded him. It was so much easier to be envious of what Bucky had than to be angry at what he himself didn’t have.

He knew how stupid that is now. He’d seen Bucky studying hard at engineering. He knew how many hours Bucky had spent at the dock to make enough money to help his family, and pay for classes in addition to what it cost to live in their apartment. He knew Bucky had decided to move out of his ma's house because Steve was living in a boarding house. Neither of them had said it, but it was there, under the surface. One more thing Bucky had done to take care of Steve.

But now he doesn’t know what to do. He's no longer the Steve Rogers who needed taking care of. What if Bucky only hung around back then because he was needed? What if all those promises Bucky made were to the little guy, not to Steve who will always need Bucky's friendship regardless of his height or ability to breathe? 

“What about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?” he asked, his voice unnaturally deep and ironic to hide the anxiousness he feels suddenly.

The smile and answer Bucky gave him is almost the same one he might have gotten if he had still been that little guy from Brooklyn. Steve breathes a little easier.

When Bucky mentions the uniform Steve can feel his face grow hot. _So that’s still there too_.

* * *

 

 Steve can’t believe his luck. His dumb stunt worked and he got luckier than he could even imagine. He should play the lottery too, he thinks. But he doesn’t need to. Not with Bucky at his side. Not with men like Morita, Monty, Jacques, Gabe and Dum Dum working with him to form plans and wreak havoc. He has men who see who he is, not only what he can do, and he has men who want to work with him to end this war.

For the first time in his life, it’s not only Bucky backing him up. For the first time, he’s not some dumb kid with a big mouth and ready fists that can’t quite shut the bullies up. He has a team.

The Howling Commandos, the newsreel producer named them. It sticks, mainly because Dum Dum liked it and worked it into toasts and drinking songs after every mission.

Morita rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He and Dum Dum had come to a friendship of sorts after Dum Dum’s stupid comment in the Hydra prison cage. It took Morita a long time to trust the large ginger-haired Irishman, but eventually, the mission and the team overcame both men’s first impressions.

It’s Bucky Steve worries about the most. Bucky’s not the same. Steve can’t tell if it’s war itself, or if something happened while he was a prisoner, but Bucky was different.

He was constantly hungry and spent every spare minute scrounging up food for the men. He was always pushing Steve to eat. That’s not so unusual. Bucky’s always tried to take care of him. And he was thin after prison, so it makes sense he’s trying to build up his strength again. And Steve is always hungry so he appreciates it. Everyone is hungry.

But that’s not it. Bucky’s moods shift so quickly that Steve couldn’t keep up. He was never sure if Bucky loved him or hated him. Bucky was always quicksilver, sliding from charming to sincere so fast the girls couldn’t keep up. Now Steve was the one who couldn't keep up. 

When they were preparing to go out on missions Bucky stormed around base requisitioning supplies. Sometimes he cajoled. Sometimes he demanded. Whatever it took to get what they need. Steve doesn’t know what he’d do without him. But when he told Bucky how grateful he was, while they’re setting up camp on a mission, Bucky gave him a look like he’s the dumbest grunt on base.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing it for? It’s my fucking job. You think I’m going to let us walk into danger with our pants around our ankles?”

Steve shouldn’t think about Bucky’s pants around his ankles. Steve doesn’t think about it. Bucky was still talking.

“Not all of us got super-serum, Steve. Some of us just got the bodies we were born with.”

“Hey, wait. I know that. You think I don’t know that?”

“Sometimes you act like they replaced your brains along with your biceps so I can’t tell.”

“You mean the brains that memorized all the Hydra locations and then figured out a plan to get your ass out of the base?”

“You think that just because you can memorize a few facts means you got brains?”

“Yeah, I think I do. And I got enough brains to know you’re acting like a complete jerk.”

“Well, maybe I am. But maybe I don’t like that my best buddy got himself shot full of chemicals and doesn’t think that’s a problem.”

“I’m not that runty little punk anymore. I don’t get sick. I can breathe. I can run. Hell, I can fight. How is that a problem?”

Bucky’s face twists and it wasn't just anger Steve saw. “Why you gotta do that? Why you gotta call yourself names like that, Steve?”

“What names? I’m stating facts.”

“Well, maybe I liked that runty little punk,” Bucky shouted and stormed off, disappearing into the woods by their small camp.

When he reappeared he was carrying a deer over his shoulders. He dropped it by the fire Dum Dum built. All of the men stared up at him.

“What?” Bucky barked. “You don’t want to eat?”

“Where the hell did you find it, Sarge?” Morita asked after a moment.

“I went hunting.”

Jacques said something and Gabe translated, “he says he didn’t think there were any deer left around here. But he knows an excellent recipe for venison stew.”

“I didn’t know you could hunt,” Steve said.

“I learned. It was part of the survival course I took when they sent me to marksman school.” His expression was so twisted up and black that no one says anything else. Bucky slipped into the woods to relieve Monty on guard duty.

Jacques cleaned and prepared the deer carcass.

When the stew was ready, Steve carried a mug of it to Bucky, whistling the agreed upon code as he got close. Bucky gulped it down while Steve got comfortable against a tree.

He takes a deep breath. This was a conversation he couldn’t put off anymore. It was starting to create tension between them that the team couldn’t have. As captain, he had to be the one to handle it.

“Bucky, are you mad at me?”

Bucky’s slow inhalation sounded like an ocean wave in the dark. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“For joining the army and undergoing an experiment?”

“That’s sure part of it. Yeah.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know, Steve. I’m mad at you for the things you said about yourself before the serum. And I’m mad at you for not telling me what you were doing, and I’m mad at you for throwing yourself into dangerous situations without thinking.”

“Why are you mad at me for what I said? Those things were true. I was small and sickly and you were always having to save my neck.”

“Maybe I liked saving your neck.”

“You could have fooled me, the way you balled me out every time afterward.”

“Well, yeah. I didn’t want you to get hurt. You’re a dumb, reckless jerk sometimes. Always have been. But I liked knowing that you needed me around.”

“Of course I needed you around. You’re my best pal. No one else would put up with me.”

“But you don’t need me anymore.”

“Maybe I don’t need you to save my neck in quite the same ways, but I still need you, Buck. You’re right. I do throw myself into dangerous situations. I need you to remind me that I really can’t do it all on my own. And I need you watching my back. The serum didn’t give me eyes back there, after all.”

Bucky sighed. “Promise you’ll lay off yourself?”

“Why does it matter so much to you what I say about myself?” Steve could hear Bucky swallow in the dark. When he spoke his voice was thick and the words come slow like they’re fighting through tar to make it out.

“Because I didn’t care about all those things. I didn’t care that you were short, or skinny or got sick. You were just Steve. And I thought you were good looking anyway. I still wanted to kiss you no matter how short you were.”

Steve felt the flush all over his skin. “What about now? Do you still want to kiss me even though I’m not short anymore?”

Bucky swallowed again. When he spoke, his voice was raspy. “Yeah.”

“Well, that’s— that’s good to know,” Steve said because he’s not sure what else to say.

“What about Peggy?” Bucky asked.

“What about her?”

“She wants to kiss you too.”

“Peggy?”

“Geez, you really don’t know anything about women, do you?”

“How can I?” Steve asked, teasing. He knew this conversation, at least. “They’re always chasing after you.”

Bucky snorted in amusement. “When it comes to Peggy, I’m invisible, like I said. She’s only got eyes for you. And they’re pretty eyes.”

“They are,” Steve agreed.

“So… you wanna kiss her back?”

“What if I said I wanted to kiss you both?” Steve asked, his chest getting tight with nervous energy. It feels sort of like an asthma attack, he realized. “

Yeah?” Bucky asked in his rough, honey voice.

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“Good to know,” Bucky said.

They stared into the darkness and Steve wondered what he’s done. After a little while, Bucky shifted closer, leaning into him.

“’S cold tonight,” he said.

Steve wrapped an arm around him. “Yeah.”

They didn’t talk anymore but they stayed that way until midnight when they hear Gabe approach for his shift on duty. He nodded to them and they headed back to camp.

Steve curled up around Bucky, because he’s always so warm these days, and they fall asleep that way. All the men sleep huddled together. This was nothing unusual. But it felt different now. 

In the morning, Bucky had turned to face him, his hands balled up between them. Steve watched him sleep in the gray light. His eyelashes fluttered, making Steve smile, but then they crinkle and Bucky groaned, struggling against the blankets wrapped around him.

“No, no, no,” Bucky muttered, his voice rising in a whine.

“Bucky, wake up,” Steve shook him. Bucky shuddered, and another moan escaped his lips. Steve, afraid the rest of the men will wake and see Bucky having a nightmare, pulled him in tighter, kissing his brow quickly.

“Bucky, it’s okay. I got ya,” he whispered, running his hands up and down Bucky’s coat sleeves. Slowly, Bucky calmed under the repetitive motions and he lay against Steve’s chest, breathing normally again.

Steve rested his chin on top of Bucky’s head and sighed. He didn’t want to imagine the things Bucky had seen before he arrived, or what happened to him in the prison camp. He just wants his best friend back the way he used to be. But maybe he's not the only one who'd changed. 


	8. Red, White and Blew Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up. 
> 
> (I had to use that title. I made someone a promise I would. Don't hold it against me.)

Bucky glared at Steve. The camp light in Steve’s quarters swung gently in a draft, casting Steve in shadow, then full light. Back and forth. Light Steve, dark Steve.

“Buck, I—” Steve began.

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Bucky growled, advancing toward him. He wasn't sure if he was going to kill him or kiss him, and apparently Steve couldn’t tell either because he backed up until he hit a camp desk, then he sat down on the desktop.

“Do you know how fucking stupid that was?” he snarled. He’s still shaking from the adrenaline hit of watching Steve nearly get shot down in front of him.

“So bloody fucking stupid, Steve!” He’s picked up new swear words from Monty and he needed them. He was running out of ways to tell Steve off.

He balled his hands into fists and pressed them into his hips. A flush appeared on Steve’s face. Bucky recognized it from their days brawling in the streets of Brooklyn. Half guilt and shame, half stubborn anger.

“I was just—” Steve tried again but shut up as Bucky moved closer. He watched warily.

Bucky stopped just in front of him, swallowing hard. The fear didn’t go down easy, and sat in his belly like all the other things he had to push down since coming here, to this war. It swirled in his gut. He wasn't sure how much longer he could handle things, and Steve’s foolhardy courage on top of everything else. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with a dirty hand.

“Buck,” Steve whispered.

And then Bucky snapped. He grabbed Steve by the lapels of his fatigues shirt and dragged him close, pressing his mouth hard to Steve’s. Steve flinched, then he’s kissing Bucky back, his hands tight at the back of Bucky’s head.

When they tear their lips apart the only sound in the tent is twin gasps for air. Bucky could feel Steve’s chest trembling against his own, or maybe he was the one trembling. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about that though, so he did the only thing he can to keep it at bay. He slid to his knees, pulling open Steve’s belt buckle and nearly popping the buttons off his fly to release the hard-on he’d felt pressing against his thigh. Steve tensed.

“Shut up,” he said before Steve had a chance to say something stupid and ruin this moment.

Steve’s thick cock quivers in the air in front of him. Bucky took a deep breath. He’d spent more time imagining this moment than he’d like to admit, but he’d never done it before. Now that it was literally staring him in the face, he was nervous. So he did what he always did when he was nervous. He opened his mouth and leaned in.

The skin of Steve’s cock was soft and delicate, and tasted like salt and sweat. When Bucky ran his tongue down its length he heard Steve inhale sharply. He wrapped one fist around the hard length and swallowed the rest of it, looking up to make sure Steve was still on board.

Steve’s head had fallen back on his shoulders, and he was gripping the edge of the desk tight with both hands. Bucky wished he’d unbuttoned Steve's shirt on his way down so that he could see the firm expanse of skin too, but the tendons standing out on his throat were good too.

Steve gasped and shifted his hips just a little bit, and Bucky sucked harder, liking that Steve seemed just a little bit out of control.

“Oh, god, Bucky,” Steve whispered, thrusting harder now. Bucky worked him over, and Steve’s breathing turned to soft pants. Bucky pulled back and Steve groaned in response.

“You better not get any louder, you hear me?” Bucky ordered in a sharp whisper.

Steve whimpered but nodded shakily and Bucky swallowed him again. Now that he had the hang of it he made his throat go soft and gathered spit on his tongue, letting things get sloppy and wet. Steve was moaning and rocking his hips like he was trying to dance with Bucky’s mouth so Bucky wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him in place so that he can do what he wants.

Steve tilted his hips, resting his ass on the edge of the desk and Bucky rose up higher on his knees, letting Steve’s cock hit the back of his throat. He was nearly gasping and choking, but he loved it. He loved how nothing was in his brain except Steve and the sounds he was making, and the way he felt, and how he smelled, and how any second he would lose it completely.

“Bucky,” Steve groaned, gripping Bucky’s short curls in his large hands. Bucky liked the way it pulled on his scalp. The edge of pain linec up with the edge of pleasure, and he was nearly over it. Steve made a strangled sound and went still, his cock deep down Bucky’s throat.

After a second Bucky let Steve’s cock slide from his mouth and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth. Steve took a deep breath, his superhuman chest expanding to strain his shirt buttons.

“Wow,” he said, sinking hard against the desk edge. His cock is still mostly hard, and glistening from Bucky’s spit.

“Wow,” he said again.

Unsure what would happen now, Bucky slowly got to his feet without looking at Steve.

“If you do that every time I nearly get myself killed I don’t think you’ve made much of a case for me to stay safe,” Steve joked weakly.


End file.
